Damage
by Gertrude-04
Summary: Sam had long ago become accustomed to the fact that his older brother would rather have his toenails ripped out than confess to even experiencing emotions. PostShifter. Sam learned about more than Dean's resentment. Dark imagery and content in later chapt


A/N: This is sort of a tag to the shape-shifter episode. I was thinking how awful it would be to have all your private thoughts and feelings shared with someone without your consent, and this is what came from that. Please let me know what you think. The single quotation marks signify Sam's memory of what the shifter told him.

* * *

Though Sam had long ago become accustomed to the fact that his older brother would rather have his toenails ripped out than confess to even experiencing emotions, let alone discussing them, he is nonetheless intensely frustrated when they have been on the road for more than an hour, and Dean still has yet to say anything.

They dealt with the shape-shifter as quickly as possible, wrapped up all loose ends, and got the hell out of town, leaving a long strip of burnt rubber on the highway. One hour, nearly a hundred miles between it and them, and not one word.

Dean had subtly but effectively shot down all of Sam's attempts at conversation, and the irony of the role reversal is not lost on the youngest Winchester. Of course, Dean is a master of manipulation when he keeps his head in a level place, and so every time he fails to pick up a conversation thread offered to him by his brother, he does so in a way that would not otherwise raise suspicion, if he hadn't just shot and killed his murderous body double in cold blood. In the end, all Sam can do is sit back in his seat, watch the scenery pass by, and glance worriedly at Dean every ten miles or so. If Dean notices the attention, he doesn't let on.

After another fifty miles, the silence is starting to get to Sam. He never thought he could've claimed that while in the company of his older brother, the one with the propensity for talking about nearly everything under the sun, and a great many things that aren't. But Sam's already done several things on this trip he never thought he would do, so he can hardly act surprised when he adds one more to the list.

"Dean, I'm getting hungry. Can we stop for some lunch?"

He says lunch because they had skipped breakfast, but temporally speaking, it's actually closer to dinner. Dean doesn't care about that, though. He just shrugs in a barely perceptible motion, as if the thought of sustaining his body with nourishment never occurred to him, and pulls off the highway at the closest off-ramp.

He parks in front of an actual restaurant, instead of his usual preference for the nearest variety store, and is up and out of the car before Sam's seatbelt is even off.

Dean is already speaking to the hostess when Sam comes in from the sun, a beautiful, slim brunette with a wide and friendly smile, dressed in the obligatory low cut white blouse and short black skirt. All in all, a woman who couldn't be more Dean's type than if he had designed her himself.

But Sam listens closely with building dread and increasing anxiety when he hears his older brother ask for a table for two, preferably a booth near an exit. He doesn't smile, or answer her obvious flirting with some of his own. He fails to make even a hint of a proposition, not even a double entendre, or a sly remark more suitable to be heard on the playground of a junior high. Dean simply follows the woman's sashaying behind without a glance in its direction.

The restaurant seems a little slow for an hour so close to dinner, and Sam hopes this is more due to the establishment's location than it's quality of food and service. They pass families eating in comfortable company, old couples indulging in the early bird special, before they are led to a tall booth near the back of the restaurant, only a few feet away from the fire exit.

"Is this okay?" The woman, whose nametag reads 'Kimberly,' looks expectantly at Dean, and Sam wonders if she could be more obvious with flashing neon lights and a megaphone. But Dean doesn't respond, at least not in a way generally considered to be socially acceptable, once again leaving his younger brother to pick up the slack.

"This is perfect," Sam offers, with a gentle smile that quickly falls from his face when she turns to look at him in surprise, with her delicately manipulated eyebrows rising to her hairline as if she hadn't noticed him in her outright appraisal of his sibling.

Dean, either oblivious to this display, or just plain uncaring, shrugs out of his leather jacket and hangs it off the back of his chair, which manages to attract even more attention from their hostess, who doesn't seem to have all that much to hand out.

Sam steps in front of her with an eye roll to slide into the leather seat opposite Dean, and after she briefly explains the recommended meals, it appears as though she finally gets the hint and returns to her position at the front of the restaurant.

"Wow," Sam says, watching with one eye as she greets a family of four in much the same manner. He pulls the drink menu over from the right hand side of the table, and begins scanning it for something to pop out. "She sure is a couple incantations sort of an exorcism, don't you think?"

Dean lays his hands on the table top, splayed open to cover as much area as he can, and shrugs absentmindedly. "I guess so. The table's nice, though."

Even if it isn't quite the remark Sam was hoping for, it is something, and given the stony silence in which most of his comments had been received, this is a great improvement. He decides on a root beer, and hands the menu across the table to his brother.

"I can drive if you want a beer," Sam offers, and manages to keep from wincing. Drowning in alcohol and hiding from the real world periodically is more their father's bag, so Sam can't help but feel relief when Dean shakes his head. He wonders if he's turning it down because he doesn't want to drink, or if his memories of their dad stumbling into the motel rooms at the oddest of times stinking of alcohol are colouring his judgment.

Of course, it might be as simple as not wanting to see Sam behind the wheel again. Since the Constance Welch episode, Dean had carefully supervised every smidgeon of driving time given to Sam, as though he suspected his brother might drive his prized possession through any random old building just for the hell of it.

A waitress approaches their table, this woman slightly older than the brunette, but clearly more professional and no less beautiful. She scribbles down their drink orders, and after promising to return shortly to take their dinner orders, she leaves to fill them.

The silence that falls over the booth does not last long. Sam is determined to pull his brother out of this funk, and he clings to that goal in the same way Dean might, should their roles be reversed, as they often are.

"So. Where are we headed next?" He wants to flip through their father's journal, if for no other reason than to have something to do. But they left it in the car, so as a replacement, Sam takes to shredding the paper napkins wrapped around their utensils.

Dean shrugs wordlessly. The action is beginning to grate on Sam's nerves. "I don't know, Sammy. I have no fucking idea what we're doing."

His choice of words may be a little harsh, but the tone in which he spoke them is so soft and gentle, and just un-Dean, that Sam has to let the sentence come around again inside his head before he considers it. Although Dean is a firm subscriber to the 'fly by the seat of your pants' way of approaching a problem, to admit to not having a plan is a weakness he isn't likely to speak out loud. It only serves to add more concern to Sam's already overflowing worry. He wonders if shooting someone wearing his face was harder for Dean than he would like Sam to know, or if maybe he suspects some of the things the shifter might have told his younger brother when they were alone.

Sam ignores the shiver than crawls up his back when his mind flashes back to that time in the sewer. 'Your brother has his own dirty little secrets, Sammy.'

He pushes those thoughts aside, and instead concentrates on the dinner menu. "I think I'm just going to have a grilled cheese sandwich."

Dean's eyebrows rise a little at his brother's words, but he otherwise doesn't comment, except to say, "Have what you want. We've got enough money."

And then Sam is certain that hell must've froze over, because while his brother isn't exactly cheap, he doesn't throw away what little money they have on something as frivolous as a nice lunch. When some orange juice and energy bars from a convenience store can do the trick just the same, why fork over hard to come by dough when they don't need to?

The waitress returns with their drinks, Sam's root beer, and Dean's coffee, black and as strong as they can make it.

"Have you decided yet?" she asks, referring to the lunch order. Dean takes a sip of his coffee, briefly makes a face, but look grateful when he sets it down on the table. He looks across the table to his brother.

"Well, Sam. What'll it be?"

He decides on the grilled cheese sandwich with a side order of fries, because regardless of Dean offering, Sam feels wrong with what seems to be taking advantage of his mood. He knows that Dean would regret spending too much money when he comes back to himself.

After flashing his younger brother a curious look, Dean orders the same, and the waitress leaves with a smile, promising to return shortly.

She's gone for maybe three minutes before Sam speaks up again. "You know, we're going to have to talk about this sometime."

Dean doesn't look up as he swallows a mouthful of coffee, wincing a little at the sharp temperature. He returns his cup to its saucer, and turns to stare out the window, rather than across the table to the pair of moss green eyes currently trying to look _through _him like he is looking through the glass.

"There's nothing to talk about," he says quietly, and though he can hear Sam's noise of frustration, he doesn't feel like offering anything else. "We took care of someone's problem, Sam. That's it."

"No, Dean, that's not it." Sam can be as tenacious as his brother when he catches wind of something that needs his attention. "You just shot and killed someone who looked exactly like you, had all your memories, and feelings, and thoughts. That doesn't weird you out just a little bit?"

Sam's looks right at Dean when he says this, so there's no possible way he can miss the hint of panic that flashes across Dean's blue eyes. But as quickly as it appeared, it's gone, so fast to leave Sam can't even be sure it was there to begin with.

"Not someone, bro," Dean says, and there's conviction in his face that makes Sam wonder if he's been thinking about this since they left the town, and came to some conclusions of his own. "Something. Some crazy fucked up piece of nature. Don't dignify that freak by calling it a someone."

Sam momentarily considers telling Dean what he learned about his big brother when he was alone in that sewer with the shifter, but dropping that bomb in a restaurant, surrounding by people, would be crueler than anything Sam could do. He decides to wait for a more appropriate time, then wonders if one will ever come.

'You ever wonder why your hero of a big brother seems so quick to prove his masculinity by screwing every female to cross his path?'

Sam shakes his head to loosen those thoughts. Not the time, nor the place, he tells himself, regardless of how much his gut is churning with emotion.

The waitress returns with their dinners, making Sam wonder if maybe his brother appeals to the ladies even when he looks like his world just got turned upside down. Then again, Dean is pretty good at hiding what is going on in his head behind stony expressions. Or a leery smile. Maybe what is so apparent to Sam isn't so obvious to everyone else. What good would eighteen years of living and working together be if he couldn't read his brother's face every once in a while?

"Do we have enough money to get a motel for the night?"

Dean creates a little hole in his mound of fries with his fingers, and pours a little puddle of ketchup into it, like Sam knew he would. He nods. "Yeah. I want to get a couple of hours more driving in, then we can find a place."

Sam suspects the amount of miles they have put between them and the shifter since leaving aren't enough, and wonders if it ever will be. Still, he's grateful they're going to stop at all. He's tired, and he knows Dean is too, in a way that won't be made better by sleeping in the Impala.

They don't speak after they've finished the meal, when Dean pulls out a handful of bills and drops them on the table. He shrugs back into his leather jacket, and leaves the restaurant, confident that his brother will be right behind him.

The sky has gotten darker since they've been inside; the line of cars visible on the highway already has their headlights flicked on. Dean quickly follows suit when he starts the Impala.

"Do you want me to put a tape in?" Sam already is reaching into the backseat for the box of tapes when Dean shakes his head.

"No. I got a bit of a headache."

And that right there is so unusual in it's self that Sam drops the box, and the tapes spill all over the backseat with a noisy clatter. Dean doesn't even spare him a glance. Sam forgets the tapes and instead grabs the smaller of the two first aid kits they keep in the car. He shakes out a couple of aspirin, and passes them to his brother, along with a bottle of water that lay forgotten by his feet.

Dean accepts the aspirin, but ignores the water and simply dry swallows the tablets.

Sam watches his brother worriedly, but doesn't push the issue any further.

A couple of hours later, Sam has fallen asleep against the window of the Impala by the time Dean pulls into the parking lot of a grungy looking motel. He switches off the car and nudges his brother awake.

"I'm going to go check us in. Unload the car, will you?"

He doesn't wait for a reply, certain that his brother heard him.

There's a greaser of a man sitting behind the counter in the motel's office. His attention is captured by the grainy, black and white television sitting on the counter next to his feet. His gaze shifts momentarily, taking in Dean and dismissing him just as quickly.

Dean lays his hand on the counter to quell the urge to do something violent.

"Just give me a room for the night." He pulls a couple of bills out of his back pocket, and tosses them into the man's lap. Without bothering to count the bills, and still without looking at Dean, the man reaches above his head and grabs a key at random off the long series of hooks.

Dean doesn't bother thanking him on the way out.

Sam is leaning against the hood of the Impala, both of their duffels dumped at his feet. His cell phone is pressed against his ear, apparently engrossed in messages. He looks up as his brother approaches, seems to expect a question as to what he's doing, but it doesn't come. Dean merely points at their room, and lifts his own bag off the ground.

With a puzzled look at his brother's back, Sam follows suit.

The room is a little skuzzier than they're used to, and Sam wrinkles his nose as the smell of sweat, sex, and hints of mold assaults him. There are two twin beds with questionable sheets, and a night table between the two. A door on the right hand side leads to the bathroom.

Dean throws his bag on the nearest of the two beds, leaving the farther one for Sam.

"I think I'll be sleeping on top of the covers tonight," Sam says, eyeing a specific stain on the comforter suspiciously.

Dean, bent over the edge of his bed and the bag that rests atop it, glances at Sam over his shoulder. "You're welcome to the car if you'd rather sleep there." He reaches into his back pocket as if to hand over the keys, but Sam shakes his head.

"No, it isn't that bad. This is fine," he says, wondering when he started to sound so juvenile again. He's not accustomed to Dean acting like this, being stiff and almost formal, not talking except to answer questions directed at him. And even then, not always. Sam finds it extremely unnerving, but considering what they had just done, or more specifically, what Dean had just done, he could hardly blame him.

"You want the shower first?" Dean asks straightening with a t-shirt and a clean pair of boxers hugged to his chest.

Sam shakes his head. "No, you go ahead." He watches his brother nod, disappear behind the closed bathroom door.

As soon as he's out of sight, Sam starts pacing. He needs to tell Dean what he learned. He feels wholly uncomfortable carrying around this secret, almost guilty that he was clued into Dean's secrets without having been given permission. It was an assault of the worst kind, tantamount to rape of the mind.

But as much as he needs to unload this, he knows that Dean needs just as much to not hear it. His brother is intensely private, hiding behind a carefully drawn up façade of being open. He allows only specific emotions to show, and by doing that, manages to keep the rest, the more important and harmful ones to him. Sam is almost certain that it's the thought of his most private thoughts being shared keeping Dean in the mood he's in.

But if the shifter's anything but a lying piece of shit, Dean needs to confront these memories like one would an illness, or a diseased limb. Sam wasn't a psychology major, but he learned enough from Jessica, who was, to be sure that repression is never a good thing. The hard part is going to be first getting Dean to admit to what Sam now trusts to be true, and the second being helping him to deal with it.

'Your brother's not as tough as he looks.'

* * *


End file.
